by Sue Duff
Jaered pulled onto the highway and headed out of the city. Troubled thoughts morphed into nauseating concern. Aeros’s Duach didn’t lay siege to the Heir’s compound—but he controlled whoever did.
{23}
Ian found Patrick in a small clearing a few feet from the main path.
He was alone, perched on a log. A bonfire pushed its heat to the perimeter and kept the cold’s bite at a distance. From the color on his face, he’d been there a while.
When Patrick looked up at Ian’s approach, overwhelming regret punched him in the gut. “Galen told you.” It wasn’t a question. Ian saw it in his eyes. Their relationship would never be the same. He sat down across from the only friend he’d ever known with a tremendous weight tugging at his heart.
“So much for Mother Nature.” Patrick stared at him like it was for the first time. “Who are you?”
Ian didn’t respond, unable to put into words what he’d spent a lifetime figuring out.
“For the last hour, I’ve sat here feeling sorry for myself. Pretty lame, huh?” Patrick said. “For weeks, I’ve imagined you were some kind of freak of nature, a ready-made superhero. I’ve fantasized about being your sidekick, spending our lives saving one damsel in distress after another.” Patrick jabbed a long stick between the logs. Angry sparks burst from the flames. “But you’re the personification of the earth, Ian. How global can you get?” He ran his fingers through his hair and dropped his head. “It’s my father, all over again.”
All his life, Ian’s friend had walked in the shadow of his billionaire father. His very existence paled by everyone around him. “I’m not him, Patrick. What we have, what we’ve built, hasn’t changed,” Ian said.
“Are you kidding? You live some kind of symbiotic existence with the planet. And, according to Galen, that connection will only be stronger on your twentieth birthday when some ceremony takes place.” Patrick bolted to his feet as if a heated branding iron had seared his ass. His face was wild from conflicted emotions. “Is that why you wouldn’t tell me anything? Were you planning on just abandoning me?”
Patrick’s words stung. But would Ian have had a choice when the time came? “I never asked for any of this,” Ian said.
“You have the earth at your beck and call, an army of protectors willing to die for you.” Patrick waved his arms. “You have power over the weather for God’s sake!”
“I may be connected to the elements, but I haven’t been able to control them. If I get mad, lightning could strike someone. If I yell, hurricane winds might knock down a house.” He paused and gazed at the bonfire’s logs stacked upward like a volcano, erupting with every flicker of the flames. A fiery reminder of what his unbridled feelings could mean for the earth. “I’m forced to control my emotions, to keep them bottled up, Patrick. My entire childhood was spent dreaming and wishing I were human. Able to feel … everything … to live without fear.”
“What you have is a gift, Ian.”
“That’s brought me nothing but pain and misery. You may not always get along with your parents, but at least you have them in your life. I’ve never known mine. From the moment I was born, I’ve been isolated from the rest of the world. I grew up living in the most remote parts of Europe and Asia. I didn’t know what it meant to have stability until I was ten and the Syndrion brought me to the States. Even then, the compound felt more like a prison than home.”
“But you’ve had the show.”
“You must have wondered why my only connection with others comes from the edge of a stage. Why I’ve refused to take the show on the road or won’t sign autographs.”
“Geniuses can be a quirky bunch. I figured you had some paranoid condition that I couldn’t pronounce.” The corner of Patrick’s mouth hinted at a smile.
Ian lowered his voice, reminded of the guards nearby. “My powers haven’t developed like the Prophecy claimed they would. That’s why I’ve buried myself in illusions. I create tricks to do what I can’t do naturally. They’re the only thing I have control over.” A glowing cinder landed at Ian’s feet, and he ground it into the dirt. “I’ve been nothing but a disappointment to the Syndrion all my life, seen as a failure.”
“Who gives a rat’s ass what they think.” Patrick settled back on the log. “You’re the Good Samaritan.”
Not for long, Ian thought. Unwilling to hold it back any longer, Ian released his dammed emotions like an opened pressure valve. The clouds grew heavy and the atmosphere shift crushed him in an instant. He closed his eyes and imagined his troubles carried away by the wind as he had been taught. The overcast quickly dispersed upon his drawn sigh. “The Syndrion have accused me of resisting my destiny. They’re right.”
“My father believes that it’s human nature to desire what we can’t have,” Patrick said. “That it’s one of our greatest flaws.”
“I’m both human and Weir, Patrick. I ski parallel paths in both worlds.”
“You’ve been living as a human. That’s a choice, Ian.”
“Not if the Syndrion have their way.” Ian grew pensive and watched the dying flames.
A guard appeared at the edge of the clearing. “Sire.”
“Have they made a decision?” Ian stood.
“They are taking a break but have requested for you to re-turn to the compound.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Moment of truth.” Patrick tossed his branch in the pit. Ian scooped handfuls of snow and dropped them onto the smoldering embers. They headed down the path. “Who are these Duach that have everyone so freaked? Where did they come from?” Patrick asked.
“During the Dark Ages, there was much war, suffering, and destruction across the lands. The Weir disagreed about how to hold the earth together. Many used their powers for self-gain. It angered the ancestors. They tried to bring the factions back together. Some returned— many did not. Those who held true or mended their ways thought of themselves as the Pur,” Ian said. “Those who chose to exploit that dark period in history were called the Duach.”
Patrick stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “Do all Weir have powers?”
“Only firstborn males. They used to be born with a core that housed a single earthly power. They’re known as a Sar.”
“Used to be?”
“Gradually, over the centuries, not all firstborns were blessed with a core. The Duach sought out the Pur Sars, trying to steal their powers either for themselves or to give to their powerless offspring. Many Pur Sars were killed in their fruitless attempts.”
“There goes the family reunions,” Patrick said.
“The scale began to tip. The ancestors feared the one-sided rise of Duach power.”
“Galen mentioned a Curse.”
“A Pur Sar and a Duach Sar cannot unite. Their cores repel. It was the ancestors’ way of saving everyone.” The warmth of Ian’s core churned in his chest.
“Why are you in the Duach’s cross hairs?”
“The centuries-old Prophecy gradually came true. It predicted that the earth’s powers would trickle down to one, a final Weir born with the last core and none thereafter. It foretold he would bear the mark of the sun, and would command all the energy of the earth.” Ian left his words hanging in the air.
Patrick stopped in the middle of the path. “You.”
The burden Ian had felt for most of his life was so clearly defined to him at that moment.
“That sun inside a triangle on your chest. It’s not a tattoo,” Patrick said.
Ian pressed his fist to his left breast. “It’s much more.”
“It must have pissed off the Duach that the last Sar born to the Weir turned out to be a Pur,” Patrick said. “No wonder you’re in their cross hairs.”
“If the Heir is lost, the Prophecy claims that the planet will fall into natural chaos and destroy itself.”
“End of the world as we know it?”
“Something like that.”
“Then why are the Duach after you? Killin
g you is freakin’ moronic.”
“Therein lies the question,” Ian said.
“I have a theory,” Galen’s voice came from down the path.
They stopped and waited for the old scholar. “Galen believes the Duach know something we don’t,” Ian said.
“The Ancients kept a journal, Patrick, the Book of the Weir,” Galen said. “It’s written in the original language, before the time of Sanskrit. It houses all of the Weir lore, but more significant, the secrets behind our powers.”
“Galen thinks the Duach have it,” Ian said.
“I believe it’s been in their possession for quite some time.” Galen’s mouth pulled into a crease. “If they have found someone to translate it, they might be able to steal Ian’s power.”
“Sounds like one hell of a chance to take. They’d have to be pretty confident.”
“I think they made the first move the other night,” Ian said.
Galen looked stricken. “Oh, my boy, that is not good news. Does the Primary know?”
“He suspects. I’m sure it’s what triggered all of this.”
“At least I don’t have a slew of Duach hunting me down.” Patrick shoved Ian. “You win. It sucks to be you more.”
Ian grinned. “I’m sure it sucks to be the sidekick.”
“Sidekick, I can own.”
Ian stepped ahead. “Come along, Tadpole.”
“Oh, you are so not naming me.”
Ian headed in the direction of the monastery with quick steps, anxious to learn the Syndrion’s verdict. Patrick droned on about comic books and superheroes.
Galen followed them in brooding silence.
{24}
Flashing lights and wooden barricades lay ahead. Rayne glanced at Zoe, reclined in the passenger seat and fast asleep. She slowed the car, then rolled to a stop in front of a uniformed man with a raised hand. A flashlight beam turned on her. Rayne lowered her window. Perplexed, she tossed him a relaxed smile. “What’s going on?”
“There’s been a chemical spill. A tractor-trailer went off the road. This entire area is closed off. You’ll have to turn around.”
“What about a detour?”
The man peered inside the car. He took a couple of seconds to study her and the sleeping Zoe as though committing them to memory. “Where are you headed?”
“My parents’ cabin. It’s about five miles north of here.”
He stepped back and put his hand on his holstered gun. “This is a private road leading through private property. You are either lost or trespassing.”
Rayne’s innocent act turned to alarm. “Then lost it is. Any suggestions?”
“Backtrack the way you came and refer to a GPS or map to find an alternate route.”
His hand remained on the butt of his gun while she turned the car around. She headed back toward the highway. A mile down the dirt road, she pulled off and cut the engine. Rayne shook Zoe. “Hey, wake up.”
“No,” she mumbled and rolled onto her side with her back to Rayne. “Chemical spill plus guards means going home to my bed sooner rather than later.”
Rayne let herself out of the car. She stretched and leaned against her open door. “Something’s not right. They enlist the National Guard at times like this, don’t they?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Why?”
“The guy who stopped me wasn’t wearing army fatigues or a hazmat suit.” Rayne poked her head inside. “He looked more like someone out of a science fiction movie.”
“That’s the most sense you’ve made all night.” Zoe sat up and stretched. “Haute couture blunders I get.”
Rayne reached into the backseat for her daypack. “Come on, I brought granola bars.”
“Great, I’m running around with a Girl Scout.” Zoe took her time putting on Rayne’s only pair of hiking boots and followed her into the brush.
Thankful for the full moon, Rayne stashed her flashlight and led the way through the trees. Zoe’s steps dragged. Unsteady terrain turned into a narrow dirt road wide enough for a single vehicle. It led in the direction of the mansion.
“It’s about time you found something suitable for human mobility,” Zoe said from a couple of yards back. “Your fan obsession is giving me blisters.”
Rayne stopped. “This is about my mother’s accident.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.”
“Why am I the only one who sees how out-of-sync this guy is.”
“He’s not. He just has a good publicist who keeps people like you paying attention, and keeps me from my cozy bed.” Zoe yawned and stretched. “So, what if you’re right?”
“What do you mean?” Rayne asked.
“You get the proof that Ian Black is the Good Samaritan. Then what? The guy lives behind tall, thick walls, Rayne. Do you really have what it takes to tear that down?” Zoe strode ahead. “Do you really want to?”
Rayne followed with uncertain steps. They hadn’t gone but half a mile or so when Zoe stopped and slumped down with her back against a tree. “My feet are numb and I can’t feel the tips of my fingers. She sniffled. Do you have any tissues?”
“Come on, keep up,” Rayne said. “We’ve gone too far for you to return to the car, and I can’t leave you.”
Zoe’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Rayne pulled Zoe to her feet. “I can’t do this without you.” Rayne stepped ahead and pushed between some bushes, but deliberately let a branch spring back behind her. Zoe’s grunt brought a grin of satisfaction. It didn’t last.
A soldier stepped in her direct path and pointed a rifle at her. “Halt.”
Rayne stopped in midstride and swallowed her gasp. Instinct drove her hands into the air. Zoe wasn’t paying attention and ran into her from behind. Rayne lost her balance and she collided with the soldier. The gun discharged.
{25}
Jaered sat in the tree with his night scope and ground his teeth at the activity around the mansion. Soldiers carried boxes while others loaded them in trucks coming and going. Troops scoured the area.
He lowered the scope and contemplated his next step. If they were moving the Heir, Eve’s years of planning would unravel.
The old caretaker’s shouts rose above the noise seconds before he emerged on the front patio. Words here and there could be made out, “stop … on hold … need to wait.” He waved a message scroll to get their attention.
Jaered leaned back against the trunk. He wouldn’t know his next step until they figured out theirs.
He shyfted back to his car and sorted through the rescued scrolls from the warehouse. They appeared to be preserved messages between Aeros and an unknown accomplice. Alarmed at their content, he threw them on the seat beside him. His orders were to get them to Eve as soon as he had intel on the Heir. She would sort everything out.
The binders were gibberish to him, chock-full of scientific equations and research notes. It took but a moment to pass over them. Jaered paused with his hand on one. It was lighter and had a leather binding. He flipped it open and discovered it to be a diary, but paused at the woman’s name on the inside cover. What was this doing here? How did Aeros get it?
Intrigued, he skimmed over the first few pages. In the be-ginning, the woman’s handwriting was neat and elegant. She detailed a happy life full of joy and promise. Several pages in, the script became erratic, mirroring her pain as her serene life deteriorated.
A gunshot echoed through the trees. Jaered shyfted into the deepest shadows nearby and drew his weapon. He closed his eyes and concentrated. His ears followed the vibrato while his thoughts traced it to a likely point of origin.
He dashed, weaving in and out of the brush. A moment later, his steps slowed at the sound of hysterical cries, and he found a vantage point behind a thick trunk.
A Pur soldier stood over the student reporter and a wailing girl with his gun fixed at their backs. A metallic odor hung in the air. The reporter grabbed her arms and rocked on her knees.
“I ne
arly got shot!” The green-haired girl wiggled a finger through a hole in the side of her jacket. Bits of down floated in the air. “What have you gotten me into?”
“Quiet,” the soldier barked. His hand went to his ear and he tilted his head. “Neither of them had identification.”
“I’m sorry,” the reporter said. She looked like she was about to break into a sob.
“Affirmative.” The soldier regarded the two women. “I’m to detain you both until the police arrive.”
The girl’s wails hit a pitch Jaered didn’t know was humanly possible. He gripped a branch. Never in a million years would he choose to jeopardize his mission, but it was about to become a reality.
{26}
Ian entered the Syndrion chamber behind the other members and took his place. Everyone remained standing until the Primary’s gavel struck.
The Syndrion took their seats. Ian’s thoughts fell on Milo, Mara, and Tara. When they touched on Patrick, guilt left a throbbing ache.
The Primary glanced at Ian. The look in the old man’s eyes was difficult to read. “The Syndrion’s decision is unanimous. The Heir will be assigned his first mission.” Ian exhaled and his shoulders relaxed. “Will the subcommittees please report their recommendations,” the Primary declared. He leaned back in his seat.
Three of the Drions stood. “We have conferred and have chosen only one to present,” Victorae said. The other two men nodded in agreement and returned to their seats.
“Drion Victorae, you have but a single proposal for the mission?” The Primary didn’t sound surprised.
Tall and lanky, Victorae’s robes hung on him like a broken hanger. “Our separate committees have discussed various projects across the globe.” He pressed a button.
Ian stared at the high-tech screens rising from the table, one in front of each Drion.
“We have found what we believe to be a single project that we can all agree upon,” Victorae said.
The formal proceedings grated across Ian’s nerves. More than anything, he wanted them to blurt it out and be done with it.
